by Bob Mayer
“You know?”
“I’ve pretty much known for years,” Ben said. “It doesn’t change anything. You married mother. You raised me, you took care of Abigail and me.”
Rumble reached in his pocket. “I have something I want you to see.” He retrieved the abolitionist token and handed it to Ben.
“What happened to it?”
“It stopped a bullet from entering my heart,” Rumble said. “And you’re a man now. If you want to go back to your unit, you get to choose to do that. I’ll talk to Sam about it tonight.”
5 April 1862, Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee
Cord was bone-tired. The kind of weariness that sinks so deep, a man thinks he’s never going to sleep and rest enough to recover. He’d been riding non-stop for two weeks with Samual, scouting west to Memphis and south, all the way down to Vicksburg. They’d had to circle wide to east on the return, crossing the Tennessee River in Alabama to get back to Grant’s army, since Sidney Albert Johnston’s army was clustered around Corinth with many skirmishers and foragers scouring the land for miles about.
“Get some hot food, Samual,” Cord said. “Show the idiots Grant’s order if they give you any trouble.”
It was a sign of how worn the big man was that he simply nodded, heading toward a cluster of fires.
Cord remained in place, in the darker shadow under an oak tree, looking at the sleeping figure curled up, an old horse blanket wrapped around him. Cord hadn’t had a chance to spend more time with Ben yet. Scouting for Sam had consumed his days, his weeks and the past month.
Cord had been to Grant’s headquarters earlier in the day to tell the General that no one knew what Johnston was planning, if he was planning anything at all. But it troubled Cord that he hadn’t been able to slide between Corinth and the Union Army, to see what was afoot. Nathan Bedford Forrest’s cavalry was covering that ground, and Cord had heard enough stories of that man to keep Samual, and himself, well clear. And he’d also learned that Ben was back with his cavalry unit, Rumble having swung Grant’s decision.
Grant was seven miles away, at Savannah on the other side of the river. Waiting to link up with Buell’s column from Nashville and recovering from a nasty fall two days ago. His horse had slipped and pinned him to the ground. Only the softness of the rain-soaked earth had saved Grant from severe injury. Still, his boot had been cut off and he couldn’t walk without crutches.
Cord watched Ben’s chest rise and fall and wondered what it would have been like to see him like that when he was younger. As a boy. As a baby.
“Atonement,” Cord whispered, gripping the rifle he’d stolen earlier in the day tight in his fists.
With all the stealth he’d learned on the frontier, Cord moved forward. He knelt next to Ben. His son’s face was relaxed, peaceful in sleep. The Bowie knife was next to his son’s head, within quick grasp. Cord nodded in approval. He slid the Henry repeating rifle and box of cartridges he’d stolen from Rumble’s kit back at Grant’s headquarters, under the loose flap of the blanket.
So intent on stealth, Cord didn’t notice the beads of sweat on his son’s forehead. It was a cool April night, not conducive to sweat.
Cord stood up and moved back to the darkness under the oak tree. “It’s a start.” And he knew a start would all he’d ever have, over and over. Making up for the years.
But tomorrow there’d be time. To sit with his son and keep up the start.
5 April 1862
To The Soldiers of the Army of the Mississippi:
I have put into motion to offer battle to the invaders of your country. With the resolution and discipline and valor becoming men fighting, as you are, for all worth living or dying for, you can but march to decisive victory over the agrarian mercenaries sent to subjugate and despoil you of your liberties, property and honor. Remember the dependence of your mothers, your wives, your sisters, and your children on the result; remember the fair, broad, abounding land, the happy homes and the ties that would be desolated by your defeat. The eyes and hopes of eight millions of people rest upon you; you are expected to show yourselves worthy of your lineage, worthy of the women of the South, whose noble devotion in this war has never been exceeded in any time. With such incentives to brave deeds, and with the trust that God is with us, your generals will lead you confidently to the combat—assured of success.
C.S.A. General Sidney Albert Johnston
Chapter Fourteen
6 April 1862, Shiloh, Tennessee
“Damn it, St. George,” Sally Skull cursed. “I tol’ you Violet Rumble be coming back to Palatine. And you shoulda known she not be coming back stupid. Now you lost us our easy cotton.”
The two were mounted to the side of the road in the darkness, listening to lines of Confederate soldiers bumbling by. It was a heck of a racket. They were just five miles from the Tennessee River and but two from the Yankee lines. Further back from the road, Gabriel was on her horse, dressed like a man, Spencer in her hands, ready for action.
“I’ll kill her and her crip son,” St. George vowed.
“The crip aint the one you need worry ‘bout,” Skull said. “The older boy out there somewhere with the Yankees. And his false boy, named after that nigra, is the one you really need be concern with.”
“That boy aint even their blood!” St. George complained. They’d ridden here with a column of Texas beef that Skull was supplying to the Confederates.
“The Rumble’s claiming he blood is all the proof they need,” Skull said. “You sure Ben Rumble joined the Yankee army?”
“5th Ohio Cavalry in da’ letter,” St. George said.
“So he out there too,” Skull said. She was silent for a few moments, mulling that over. “I imagine battles can get mighty confusing. I got a couple of my drovers over on the other side, selling the Yankees some of the beef I already done sold to this side.”
That was too sharp an angle for St. George’s brain to negotiate. “And?”
Skull rolled her eyes, the movement lost in the darkness. “Means I can get you over there among the blue, free to roam, acting as one of my men.”
“What for?”
Skull couldn’t keep in the sigh of exasperation. “A bullet can come from the front or it can from the back, but no one knows really who fired it in a battle, but picking your target is a lot easier from the back. Those two Rumble’s are over there. Gen’l Johnston claims his men will have their horses drinking from the Tennessee River by this evening. You do right, both Rumble’s be dead by same time.”
St. George remained still for a long time, as if the concept was sinking through the layers of fat and muscle. “And then?”
“Then I’ll go wit’ you to Palatine and do what shoulda been done in the first place. We bury Miss Violet under her stone angel along with her one-legged son. And it be ours.”
“Why bury her?” St. George asked. “Just throw ‘em in the river.”
“Have a bit of respect,” Skull muttered, but not loud enough for it to register with St. George.
“How I get over to Yankees?” St. George asked.
“Gabriel will guide you,” Skull said. “She been back and forth a few times.”
“I don’ want no nigra—” St. George began, but Skull hushed him.
A horse came down the road, weaving through the rebel Infantry as if both horse and man could see in the dark. The rider reined in next to Skull and St. George, a flame finding a pair of moths.
“Long way from the Mississippi,” Nathan Bedford Forrest said. “I suppose the two of you are making a profit out of this?”
“You suppose right,” Skull said. “But we’re providing some needed service to the cause.”
“Big victory today, right Cuhnel?” St. George said.
Forrest was a dark shadow, but his eyes glinted in the moonlight. “Maybe. Johnston’s a fighter. But they sent that fool Beauregard from the east to be his second. He made the plan for the attack. Heard an aide say he based it on Napoleon’s attack at Waterl
oo. Thing is,” Forrest leaned closer to the two, “I might not be school smart, but I recollect that Napoleon lost at Waterloo. Damn West Pointers.”
“Fella in charge on the other side a West Pointer,” Skull pointed out.
“Can’t spit but you hit one,” Forrest said. “Some of them good fellas. If Buckner had had command at Donelson from the start, we mighta held. Those rabbit politicians wearing stars are worse for the army than anyone else. And Johnston is tough as nails.”
“He’s a Texan,” Skull said proudly. “I know’t Gen’l Johnston a long time. I was but a girl when I seen him get wounded dueling Gen’l Houston for command of the Texas army. He stood fast, refusing to fire, even after getting shot in the leg. I nursed him to health when they brought him into the borde--.” She abruptly stopped.
Both men stared at her, but were unable to see the look on her face. St. George had never heard that tone in her voice and Forrest encountered it every day and recognized it for what it was: adoration.
“Why’d he not shoot?” St. George asked.
“He thought it stupid for two men on the same side to be fighting each other,” Skull explained.
“Makes sense.” Forrest stretched out his shoulders. “They got the whole damned army coming up this one road. That don’t make sense. Gonna be a big jumble once the shooting starts. A man needs to spread out to fight, not pile on top of each other.”
“What they got you doing, Cuhnel?” St. George asked.
The frustration was obvious in Forrest’s voice. “Right flank and hold. I told Beauregard I could cross the river with my boys and make sure Buell don’t get close. But they think Buell and his army are still up by Nashville. ‘Cept they don’t know that for sure. They don’t know anything for sure. They all think the Yankees are going to run.”
“They might,” St. George said, but Skull didn’t comment. “Southern boy worth five, maybe ten, Yankees in a fight.”
“They aint gonna run,” Forrest said. “They’re men, too.”
To that, St. George had no reply.
Forrest looked into the deeper shadows under the trees. “Your girl with the Spencer out there, aint she?”
“She is,” Skull said.
“Trust is a dangerous thing,” Forrest said. He pulled on his reins. “Well, lady and gent, I got me some killing to do today. Perhaps I’ll see you later in the day.”
“Perhaps,” Skull allowed.
“Yes, sir, cuhnel,” St. George said.
Forrest rode off. Somewhere in the dark a soldier tripped, causing a chain reaction in the column of Confederate Infantry. Curses and the clank and rattle of swords, muskets, mess kits and the sundry the men carried echoed in the dark.
Skull shook her head. “Not be as many mouths to feed soon.”
“Sir!”
Cord was awake instantly, one hand grasping for the Bowie which was no longer on his belt, the other for the Lancaster, fingers curling around the stock.
“What is it, Samual?” Cord sat up, the light blanket falling aside. It was just before dawn, that fleeting time when the stars disappeared in the haze of impending sunlight and it was damn near impossible to make anything out in the dark haze.
“Animals be running, sir,” Samual said. “Squirrel and the like. Out of the woods and swamp to da’ river.”
Cord was on his feet. “Where’s General Sherman?”
“Near da’ Shiloh Church, sir.”
Cord clapped a hand on Samual’s shoulder. “All right. You go to Savannah. Tell General Grant that Elijah Cord smells bad air. Very bad.”
Samual cocked his head. “Sir?”
“Just tell him, with those words: Elijah Cord smells bad air. Very bad.”
“Yes, sir.” Samual paused. “It’s the Lord’s day, sir. The Sabbath.”
“I know,” Cord said.
“Shouldn’ be fighting on the Lord’s day.” Samual sprinted into the darkness.
Cord ran in the opposite direction down one of the many cow paths that crisscrossed the area. The past few days, many men and units had become lost on those paths, unable to tell one from the other, but Cord trusted his inner sense of direction, honed by years on the frontier. All around he could hear the soldier’s cough. It was a constant sound that accompanied the army. Sick soldiers, trying to clear their lungs. Accompanied by a chorus of snoring from thousands of men.
Nobody had dug in or prepared defenses. Cord knew Sherman was reluctant to appear afraid after almost getting permanently removed from the Army for his proclamations of gloom and doom the previous year. And Sam Grant, well, he just didn’t like being on the defensive. Besides, everyone agreed the Rebels were still in Corinth. Cord knew what Kit Carson would make of that and he felt a pang that his scouting hadn’t been able to cut in between the two armies and fix the rebel positions for certain.
It was going to be a beautiful spring day. The trees were freshly leafed. Peach blossoms loomed overhead. A deer came galloping by, heading in the opposite direction, as Samual had noted. There were shots in the distance. There had been shots in the distance for days. Sporadic encounters between pickets and Confederate cavalry patrols. Or men coming off duty discharging their weapons to unload them. Those that had loaded them with powder and ball in the first place. There were a number of men who’d filled their barrels with ‘oh-be-joyful’, powerful moonshine to make the lonely hours on picket duty pass by that much faster by ‘tipping the barrel’ every so often.
This firing was different.
Like a rainstorm moving in on a tin roof, first there were the separate drops, but the volume was increasing steadily.
Cord found Sherman rolled in a blanket, underneath a wagon.
“Cump!”
Sherman’s eyes flickered open. He sat up abruptly, bumping his head on the underside of the wagon. Cursing, Sherman crawled out.
“What’s the report?” Sherman demanded as he buckled on his sword.
“I haven’t seen anything,” Cord said. “But the rebs are coming. In force.”
“How do you know?” Sherman asked.
“Because we didn’t expect them to be coming. I sent word to Sam.”
Sherman nodded. “Wallace is at Crump’s Landing. I’m sure Sam will get him moving, but we’re going to need him on the double. Can you pass that message to him?”
Cord looked toward the sound of the firing, knowing exactly where Ben was.
“The best you can do for your boy, right now, Elijah,” Sherman said, “is get us reinforcements.”
“All right, Cump.” As Sherman went to his staff, issuing orders, Cord reached in his pocket. He retrieved his West Point ring and slid it on his finger.
“Hold on there!”
The Union soldier was dangerous. Samual had spent his entire life avoiding confrontation. The soldier was scared, and that made him doubly dangerous.
“Yes, sir,” Samual said.
“Where you be going, boy?” the soldier demanded.
“I got to get to Savannah, sir,” Samual said. “Got a message to deliver.”
“To who?”
“General Grant, sir.” Samual knew that the truth was a mistake the second it left his mouth, but now it was out there, hanging in the air.
The soldier laughed. “You a dumb one, aint you? Aint never met no nigra before, but they said you people was dumb, and you sure is. You ‘pect me to believe that?”
Samual started to reach into his pocket to get Grant’s pass, but the soldier stuck out his rifle. “Don’t you be grabbing for nothing, boy!”
More soldiers were gathering round, silhouetted by the glow from the campfires.
Taking the road had been a mistake too, Samual now accepted. He’d been in a rush. Trying to do what he was told. Elijah Cord smells bad air. Very bad.
“Sir, I got important words to give.”
“To General Grant. Yeah, boy. Heard that. Who it from? Maybe Abraham Lincoln hisself?”
The soldier looked past Samual as the sound of fir
ing made a brief appearance, a trick of acoustics, then faded to the chorus of normal camp rousing. The soldier’s tongue slid over his lips. He was damn scared.
Samual took the glance as an opportunity and made a break for the woods.
He hadn’t seen the other soldier. The one who’d come up behind him and laid him out cold with a butt stroke to the side of the head.
“Damn stupid nigra,” the Union soldier muttered as he went back to breakfast.
Ben lay on his back, feeling each breath enter his mouth, slide down his throat and fill his lungs with difficulty. He coughed hard, a racking that twitched his body. He rubbed a hand across his forehead and it came away wet with sweat. There was a pounding inside his skull, reminding him of the one time he’d over indulged in spirits at college. Except he’d had none last night. He’d been feeling sour ever since Fort Donelson.
Beyond the snoring and coughing of other men, he could hear birds chirping, heralding a new day. He envied them. They didn’t have the worries of humans. The imagination of what might lie ahead. There was here. There was now. And that’s all they had.
The sound of musket firing was growing louder. That was pulling him from the here and the now, to the endless possibilities of the day ahead. Ben sat up and almost fell over. He dragged his thoughts to the present, but they slipped through without grabbing purchase, back to the long night. He’d slept some. And he’d dreamed in his fever. Of West Point. Of the Hudson River and the highlands. Of a woman with the most beautiful green eyes telling him everything would be fine. He couldn’t pull her complete image out of the dream. Just those eyes. The rest of her was incomplete, hazy, like when the fog lay over the Hudson on a summer morning.
There’s also been a man. Hovering over him in his dreams. Not a threat though. A comfort in some way Ben couldn’t pin down.
He tossed aside the horse blanket and his eyes widened as he saw his ‘father’s’ Henry and box of cartridges. He picked up the gun, feeling the balance, admiring the sleek lines of the weapon.
